Then, as he did with every letter he wrote his wife, he deleted it. She’d get it anyway, of that he was certain, and the celestial e-mail system was one that not even the NSA could tap. He stood and stretched. His fingers brushed the speckled ceiling of Irina’s sad little motel room as he inventoried its squalor: a cheap writing desk; worn blue carpet; tacky Indian scenes on the wall; a thin mattress; yellowed sheets. Nothing here worth wanting. Nothing worth having. Nothing worth keeping. Except for a woman as innocent as her dreams. Only a day ago, he’d thought no more of her than he would of a plastic pawn, a game piece to be moved and sacrificed as he forced Sam to checkmate. Now things had changed, changed a lot. He couldn’t say why. All he knew was that he was responsible for her, a guardian angel to be sure. Whatever happened from here on was his fault and no one else’s. Arrogant ass that he’d always been, he’d thought he could muscle Sam into telling the truth. Instead, cocky, pompous, and too damned certain of his own self-righteous superiority, his neat little scheme had blown up in his face.
